Chapter 39 - visual learner
I wake before she does.
I always do.
It isn't discipline anymore it's reflex. The kind that settles into bone after years of sleeping with one eye open, after learning that peace is never permanent. Silence can mean safety... or it can mean something has already gone wrong.
The chamber is dim, washed in that fragile gray light that exists only at dawn. Curtains stir faintly in the breeze. Somewhere outside, birds argue about territory like the world hasn't nearly shattered the night before.
She's curled toward the center of the bed, knees tucked in slightly, hair spilled like dark silk across the my chest. Her breathing is slow, even too calm for someone who bled in her own chambers hours ago.
I don't move.
I just watch her.
There's a quiet terror in moments like this. When everything is still. When you're forced to imagine the version of reality where you were too late. Where your hands shook. Where the blade cut deeper. Where she never opened her eyes again.
Her fingers twitch.
My shoulders tense.
Then her eyes open.
Sharp inhale. Immediate panic.
Her hand flies to her side beneath the covers, fingers pressing carefully at first, then harder. She freezes, bracing for pain that doesn't come.
I watch confusion bloom across her face. She presses again. Waits.
Nothing.
"What—" she whispers, voice rough with sleep.
"I had someone bring me something while you were asleep," I say quietly.
She jolts, twisting too fast, eyes wide. "Dante—!"
"Easy," I murmur, lifting a hand. "You're fine."
She studies my face like she's trying to decide if I'm lying.
"Someone?" she asks again.
"Yes." I sit up slowly, rolling tension out of my shoulders. "You won't feel pain while it heals. Maybe an itch now and then. That's it."
I do not tell her Lucian stood over her bed muttering about soul integrity and timelines.
I do not tell her magic hummed through the room like a living thing.
I do not tell her how close I came to tearing the world apart if it hadn't worked.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, still testing her side with cautious fingers.
"No pain," she murmurs. "That's... unsettling."
"Get used to unsettling," I reply.
I stand and stretch, muscles pulling tight as I reach for the ribbon I usually use to bind my hair. I feel her gaze before I see it focused, curious, entirely unfiltered.
"Why do you have so much hair?" she asks.
I pause mid-motion.
"...Because I'm lazy."
She snorts. Actually snorts.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." I gather the long black length in my hands. "I used to cut it. Then one day I tied it back and realized out of sight, out of mind. Years passed. It stayed. Now I don't notice it."
She studies it like a strategist eyeing weak points.
"Can I braid it?"
I laugh Short and sharp.
"No."
She pouts instantly.
Dangerous woman.
"Please."
"No."
"It would make me feel better."
I glance at her. She's smiling now soft, hopeful, entirely aware of the leverage she holds.
I sigh. Long and dramatic. "Fine. One braid."
Her eyes light up like she's just been handed a kingdom. "Twelve."
"Absolutely not."
"Eight?"
"No."
She leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "If you don't let me, I'll never kiss you again."
I freeze.
"...Four," I say tightly. "Final offer."
She beams like she's won a war without losing a soldier.
She practically launches herself toward the dresser, yanking drawers open. I hear the unmistakable rustle of ribbon.
"I said braid," I call. "Not decorate."
She pops back into view holding several lengths of ribbon in different shades. "You can't have undecorated braids. That's barbaric."
"I am barbaric."
She ignores that and steps behind me, fingers already threading through my hair with surprising care. Her touch is light, reverent even. It shouldn't mean anything.
It does.
"So," I ask quietly, watching our reflection blur slightly in the mirror, "what do you want to do with Isla?"
Her hands don't pause.
"I want her executed," she says calmly.
No hesitation. No tremor. No performance.
I nod once. "If that is your wish."
She weaves ribbon through the first braid, humming softly some tune I don't recognize.
Silence stretches between us, heavy but not suffocating.
When she finishes, she steps back, clearly pleased with herself.
I turn toward my reflection.
Four neat braids. Dark ribbon woven cleanly through them.
I scowl.
"You look adorable," she declares.
I turn slowly. "I am supposed to be feared."
She grins. "You can be feared and adorable."
Before I can respond, she climbs onto my lap without warning, straddling me with an ease that steals my breath. Her hands settle on my shoulders like they belong there.
My instincts scream. My body responds.
She smiles down at me mischief, relief, something fragile beneath it all.
"And you're still terrifying," she adds sweetly.
I huff. "If anyone sees this—"
"They'll think you're terrifying with amazing braids ."
I meet her eyes.
She kisses me like she's already decided the outcome.
There's no hesitation no testing of boundaries. Just intent. Her mouth presses into mine with quiet confidence, fingers slipping into my hair as though they've always belonged there. I feel the gentle pull where she braided it earlier, my hand instinctively rises to her waist.
For a second just one I forget how to breathe.
She pulls back barely an inch, just enough for me to see the glint in her eyes. It's not innocence. It's challenge. Curiosity sharpened into something dangerous.
"We need to talk about our wedding," she says.
I blink, the words taking a moment to land. "Our wedding," I repeat slowly, tasting them like they might cut.
"It's in three weeks," she adds, tone light, almost casual like she's discussing the weather instead of the thing that will change both our lives forever.
I let out a low breath that might almost be a laugh. "And what exactly do you want to talk about?"
She studies me then. The way she does when she's measuring a battlefield or weighing the cost of a decision that will end lives. Her gaze drops not shyly, but deliberately before lifting back to mine.
"What I should expect that night"
That alone would have been enough to tighten something deep in my chest.
But she doesn't stop there.
She pauses. Smiles. Slow. Knowing.
"And... especially that night."
The air shifts.
It's subtle, but I feel it immediately heat pooling low, something coiling tight beneath my ribs. I drag my thumb along the curve of her hip, slow and intentional, watching the way her breath catches despite herself.
"Isabella," I murmur, voice low, edged with warning and amusement, "are you asking what I plan to do to you?"
She shakes her head.
"No."
My brow furrows.
She leans in closer until her lips brush my ear, her voice soft and unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous than any demand.
"I'm asking you to show me. I'm a visual learner."
I close my eyes.
Just briefly.
And I send a silent, desperate plea to every god who has ever watched me bleed on foreign soil.
Please don't let anyone knock.
When I open my eyes, I'm smiling but there's nothing gentle in it.
"Good," I say quietly, hands sliding to her waist, firm and certain. "Because I'm a very good teacher."
She gasps softly, fingers tightening in my hair, her body reacting before her pride can catch up.
I kiss her again.
Slower this time. Deeper. No rush. No hunger I can't control yet.
Her mouth is warm, responsive, curious. She tastes faintly of wine and warmth and something uniquely hers. Every quiet sound she makes settles deeper into my chest, fueling the fire I've spent a lifetime learning how to restrain.
Her hands roam over my shoulders, across my chest, tracing scars she doesn't ask about. She touches them like she's memorizing me, like she understands they're part of the lesson too.
I trail my mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat, lingering where her pulse races beneath my lips.
Her breathing grows uneven, matching my own, the world narrowing to warmth and closeness and the promise humming between us.
I press my forehead to hers, forcing myself to slow before I forget that patience is also power.
"We'll go at your pace," I tell her quietly, honestly. "But don't mistake that for restraint."
Her eyes darken.
I kiss her again one last time before pulling back just enough to whisper against her lips:
"By the time I'm done teaching you, Isabella... you won't need to ask what comes next."